


In Which A Loser Is Sick...

by adamantCompulsions



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff & Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Meteorstuck, Sickfic, just comes up near the end, panquadrant relationship, very slight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 15:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13103184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamantCompulsions/pseuds/adamantCompulsions
Summary: IN WHICH A LOSER IS SICK AND TRIES TO DENY IT, A TROLL IS ALSO A LOSER AND TRIES TO DENY IT, PISSING PANTS IS DISCUSSED IN THE SAME LINE OF CONVERSATION AS CALMING DOWN, VRISKA IS MENTIONED BECAUSE OF COURSE SHE IS, SOUP IS MADE AND SUBSEQUENTLY IGNORED, AND AN ACT OF AFFECTION IS REPAID BY THE WEAKENING OF AN IMMUNE SYSTEM.Dave gets sick and Karkat takes care of him.





	In Which A Loser Is Sick...

Something’s up with Dave.

And, like with everything sensible, he tries to hide it and fails miserably. Your eye is the divine force of scrutiny that sees all, and he is only a mortal fool under the wrath of your heavenly vision. You are the one who makes his immortality and the godly status of the horrorterrors look like mere children at a tea party. It’s you.

So, when you don’t receive long, shambling train wrecks of one-sided conversations in response to your short quips (well, short for you) to greet him in the morning, your heavenly vision knows something’s up.

You travel to his block, palmhusk in pocket in case he decides to stop being a stingy ass who only talks in words of up to three syllables, and knock as loud as you can on the door to communicate both your anger at his refusal to communicate in a normal manner and to alert him yes, you are here, and you’re wondering what the something is that is up.

You think you can hear a groan from inside, and then a cough. A nasally, stuffy voice replies:

‘Who is it? Actually, it doesn’t matter. Whoever it is, go away ‘cus I’ve contracted a nasty case of some Alone Time Would Be Appreciateditis with a side of – oh shit, that’s not how illnesses work. Uh …’

And that’s enough evidence for you to justify your bursting into his room.

‘SHIT!’ he screams and fumbles about in an amalgam of all the blankets he’s ever alchemised, perched precariously on top of his human bed. 

‘Sorry,’ you say immediately, and then shake your head. Goddammit, _you’re_ meant to be the angry one!

‘I mean, no, I’m not, because you’ve been acting weird all day and I’m not fucking standing for it!’

‘What are you talking about,’ you think you can hear him mumble, but you plough through.

‘But the worst thing is – you know what the worst thing is, Strider?’

‘Oh shit,’ he says. ‘Is it that we’re on last-name basis again?’

‘No, but you should still be pretty fucking worried about that!’

‘I know.’

‘It’s that you tried to _hide_ it from me!’

You hate the inflection in your voice. 

‘Never mind the fact that I’m not a blind fucking wiggler, you’re transparent as fuck when your words don’t make any sense, even in their staggeringly microscopic copiousness. And anyway, I, unlike other people, can read you like a fucking book!’

‘Debatable,’ he mutters.

‘Oh come the fuck on. And while you’re at it, grow the fuck up and tell me what’s wrong!’

Dave purses his lips, a gesture you know means bad news, but you’re fucking worried, alright. 

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he replies in an off voice, punctuated by a weedy cough. 

You roll your eyes and stomp towards him, crossing your arms as you watch him from the side of the recuperation platform. The centre of his face is almost bright red, his forehead is pale as lusus-skin, and his hair sticks to his ears and skin with sweat in – alright, he has tiny curls now. That’s … no, no, you’re not getting distracted by his adorableness, you have a point to make, goddammit, and if you’re staring dreamily into the locks of his silky human hair then your point may as well be flushed down the loadgaper and consumed by sewer-dwelling finbeasts. 

‘Something is most definitely wrong, you obtuse shit-intestine.’

‘Gross,’ he says, and you snort.

‘Stunning revelation there. Now are you going to talk to me or what?’

He tries to stare you down, even through his shades (why the fuck is he still wearing those, in bed, while like this?), but fails almost immediately (predictable, because you are always the winner of this particularly pan-numbing activity he likes to participate in when he’s especially interested in being a brain damaged wiggler struggling through the Breeding Caverns) and ends up sighing as he runs a hand through his hair, leaving said hair sticking up in damp clumps. You notice his hands are sweating almost as much as Equius after a close examination of one of the posters in his room (posters the dreambubbles have allowed you to become way too familiar with). 

‘Fine. I’m sick, alright? You happy?’

‘Sick?’ You ask, trying to quell the cold, pulsating wave of worry that builds in your gut at the word. You know troll sicknesses, and if the humans’ are anything like them, he’s fucked enough without the possibility of having caught one of _your_ infections. Humans are weak, undeveloped creatures, and their squishy immune systems wouldn’t give them enough time to even attempt a cure.

‘Yeah.’ He coughs wetly, and eyes his now-mucus-y hand in disapproval. ‘It’ll go away in a couple days.’ He wipes his hand against the morass of blankets covering his thin frame to clean it, and you resist the urge to whimper in protest. That reminds you, though – those blankets have needed a thorough cleansing for a couple of years now. ‘Just let me wallow for a while, please – I feel enough like shit without worryin’ you, Karks.’

He smirks at your resulting growl, but you both know he means it, even beneath the veneer of irony he’s tried to paint it with. Luckily, Dave is a shit painter.

‘Yeah right. What kind of moirail – matesprit – _whatever the fuck we are_ would just leave their partner at the cold, morbid hands of dilapidating illness without a single, squeaking protest in the face of your oncoming death?’ 

‘Jesus Christ, man,’ Dave interrupts, mild horror tainting his voice. ‘I’m not going to fucking die, chill your goddamn pants.’

‘What? My pants are chill! My pants are the chillest pants on this entire damn meteor – a significant feat, considering Vriska’s candidacy, made possible by the continuous pissing of herself every night knowing she’s the most despicable troll ever lucky enough to avoid the judicial wraths of a flaming barrage of meteors.’

Dave coughs quietly, and rolls over with a wavering groan so his back’s to you. ‘That’s the exact opposite of chill, dude. Your words just gave me a headache. Like, worse than the one I have already. Has Rose alchemised that fucking Panadol yet?’

He shifts the blankets further up to his head. You shudder – why is he getting the germs closer to his unprotected face? Well, unprotected other than the insufferable black discs still hiding his eyes. These being completely fucking useless. 

‘Sorry. And no, I have no idea what that is.’ You peer over his tensed shoulder, having a very, very private thought that you’re glad he’s not dying. Your gaze then drifts downwards, to the mountain of sheets, quilts and similarly alchemised warmth generators that he’s been dragging around the meteor whenever he gets cold (see: A WHOLE FUCKING LOT) and subjecting to sterile viruses, inactive bacteria, miscellaneous stains and fabric wrinkles for the majority of two and a half years. The human washing machine you made him install in his room beckons. (The forced installation was made necessary once you found out he hadn’t used any such devices for over a sweep because he didn’t realise there was a clothing ablution block right next to his room, and, quote, "its not worth the integrity of my feet and legs just to drag myself all the way over to the other side of the meteor and wash clothes that frankly dont need washing.")

You carefully inch towards the figure on the bed, glancing down at the blankets to make sure he isn’t wrapped too tightly inside his makeshift cocoon. You, silent, stealthy, like a wild meowbeast, approach Dave, who’s breathing heavily (albeit loudly) and lies still. You reach a hand over the blanketed mess…

‘Back off, Vantas.’ 

You jump. How the fuck did he – okay, fine, you may not have been as stealthy and silent as you meant to be, but that’s just how you are, alright? Being sneaky is fucking hard.

You sigh loudly. Welp, there goes the unexpected approach. 

You fling your arms over his body and yank the blankets off, collecting them in one unruly ball in your hands. You can practically smell the bacteria lingering on the cloth, much too close to your nose to be anything in the vicinity of comfortable or safe. 

‘Hey, what are you doing!?’

‘Something _sanitary,’_ you bark at him, grinning, and race towards the clothing ablution device. You remember to pour as much detergent in as possible without summoning a foam flash flood, and soon enough, you’re slamming the lid shut and the metal is thumping with the force of all the soft accessories inside tumbling around it. You speak over the stray snickers he can’t keep down. ‘Something you wouldn’t know anything about.’

‘Fuck you,’ he giggles, and you flip him off in return as you turn around to watch him try and hide his smile. 

‘Why the fuck are you naked?’

‘I’m not naked, Jesus,’ he replies immediately, shrinking into himself oh-so-slightly. You can only tell because you’ve watched him do it before – a slight tensing of the muscles, almost not there, and a flicker of his eyes beneath him as his body only just follows the movement of his pupils. It’s hard to spot from this far away, you’ll give him that. 

‘You’re basically naked,’ you continue, stepping towards him. You’re right – he’s in his underpants, but that’s it. 

‘Fuck you,’ he says, again. You actually laugh – his thinkpan is a gooey, rotted mess because of this illness, and it’s showing. 

‘Whatever, just explain, please.’

‘Well, I was hot,’ he says, like it’s obvious, and if you didn’t think he was sick before, you definitely do when he doesn’t follow that up with a comment about his appearance. He sniffles.

‘Then why did you have so many blankets with you?’ You cross your arms, amused. 

‘Well I got cold, but re-dressing myself would’ve been a bitch. I’d have to get up, and pull on my sweaty clothes again…’ Here you phase out a little, noticing the dark red pile of godtier fabric beside his bed and wishing you could’ve seen it earlier to rid it of bacteria like you did with the other mass of cloth in the room. You blink, realising he’s still talking. 

‘… so it would be easier for me to just give in to the whims of this stupid fever thing, and anyway, I already had these all captchalogued because, well, you know why, I get cold pretty easily, and –’

‘Yeah, yeah, okay, I don’t actually give a shit. Well, I kind of give a shit, I mean it’s sort of my job – fuck, whatever. The point is, let’s stop discussing your nakedness for a second.’

Dave smirks, and you groan and flip him the bird. 

‘I just wanted to know,’ you shift uncomfortably, and you can tell he notices, ‘do you like, need anything?’

‘What do you mean, dude?’ his words are slightly slurred, only a little, but gog, he just looks so _sick_ and _sounds_ so sick and _acts_ so sick and it’s driving you crazy. You need to help him, but humans are weird, and this human is especially weird. 

‘I mean, do you, uh, want food or water or something? Like, fucking …’ You shrug and move your gaze pointedly to the roof, because he’s giving you one of his weird looks and you have no idea how to interpret that. ‘Soup, or shit? Humans like soup, right? When they’re sick? In the movies?’ 

He blinks, and then smiles – oh fuck. He never smiles, not in situations like these, you mean, when you say something funny or do something funny or when he’s having actual fun it kind of creeps out sometimes, but never for something as stupid as this. The “fever” he mentioned must be taking a toll on his facial muscles. 

‘Yeah, in the movies,’ is all he says, quietly, his words like corks in his throat, and you swallow because gog _damn_ he’s cute like this. Then he coughs, forced this time, and his smile turns into a wobbly frown. Is his face redder, or is that just the fever?

‘I mean, sure, if you want to do that,’ he tells you, and you notice his finger trying not to pick at the sheets on his mattress and failing miserably. 

‘Right,’ you say, like the genius you are, and quickly fuck off to find him said soup.

 

***

 

You knock on the door to Dave’s respiteblock before you come in, even though it’s open and pressed against the wall. 

He’s turned away from you, lying on his side, but he lifts an arm lazily and does something that might be interpreted as a wave, so you enter. You try not to focus on the curves of his bare body, his foreign, tanned skin, his underpants covered in quadrant symbols for some unknown reason. It’s harder to not focus on the raised, light lines that ensconce his frame, the lop-sided criss-crosses and jagged scratches and badly-healed slashes. The undersides of his feet stand out the most to you, though; soft and almost untouched, and, you can’t help thinking, probably ticklish. 

You set the bowl down on the side table, and don’t think about the way he twists around to face you, the relaxed fluidity to his movements you hardly ever get to see, the slow lethargy the sickness has let seep into his muscles. He lies there, on a different side but otherwise completely the same as he had been before, and blinks at the bowl. 

‘Oh.’ You raise an eyebrow. What the fuck does _that_ mean?

‘What the fuck does _that_ mean?’

‘Nothing,’ he says, his mouth the only thing that moves. ‘I just… you actually got this for me?’

‘Who else?’ you say, becoming slightly impatient and trying to beat down the caliginous bile that’s started to rise from your stomach. Dammit, this is the most disgustingly clichéd pale moment all the romcoms warned you about – you _cannot_ start vacillating now. Why couldn’t he just eat the fucking soup?

‘I don’t know,’ he answers, and you blink, forgetting you’d asked a question. 

A few seconds slide by. 

‘Well, are you going to eat it?’ It comes out harsher than intended, but you think he knows, because he doesn’t look bothered. 

‘Mm,’ he murmurs, and you can see his pupils dart downwards even through the plastic hiding them. ‘Uh … thanks, dude, really, I mean it. I appreciate it a whole fucking lot – you dig me?’

‘Dig you? What the fuck are you rambling about?’

‘…right, sorry. I just, I can’t, eat right now. Sorry. I just feel like if I talk any more than I’m talking now I’m going to decorate the floor with my body’s whole interior.’

You sigh. ‘Colourful.’

‘Sorry,’ he says again, and annoyance flutters in your fucked up bloodpusher. Goddammit, go _away,_ you stupid spades – you even fashion yourself beating them away with a stick in your head. 

‘Don’t apologise,’ you tell him, and you realise now he looks downright miserable. Wow. You didn’t know humans could even _look_ that sad.

‘Hey, it’s no big deal. I’ll just make more later, or heat that up or something. If you can’t eat or talk it’s not your fault. In fact, it’s sort of a welcome reprieve. Finally, some long-prayed-for silence in Strider’s devilish presence.’

He smirks. 

‘Oh, fuck you, just because all those smutty romance novels have slandered the meaning of devilish doesn’t mean it’s different. You know what I mean, you snot-headed twit.’

‘Sure I do.’ 

You show him your favourite finger for the third time that day and then pick up the bowl. ‘Alright, well I guess I’ll go put this in the thermal hull for later,’ you tell him, and are ready to leave when he brings out his whiny voice.

_‘Kaaarkaaat.’_

You roll your eyes and turn around, watching his face contort into a pout.

‘I seem to remember a distant past in which you told me you couldn’t speak,’ you reply, unimpressed.

‘Yeah, alright. But I don’t need to speak for long. I just need to get you to pity me enough to serve my purposes.’

‘And what would your purposes be, oh great manipulator?’ you question with a smirk. 

‘I don’t know, man. Maybe I just want attention.’

You roll your eyes, more emphatically this time. ‘Well, you can get attention as soon as I make sure this shit will keep,’ you tell him, and turn around to start towards the door again. 

‘Hey, wait!’ You keep walking. ‘Karkat! Buddy, man, dude, dog. Karks. Karkles. Karkitty. Did you know there’s a girl in the dreambubbles who calls you Karkitty?’

‘Yes,’ you respond in a monotone. 

‘It’s some pretty sick shit. Hey, speaking of sick shit, what about _meee.’_

You almost growl as you look over your shoulder. ‘Why yes, Dave. What about you?’

You can see his puppy eyes even through his black, plastic shields. ‘Karkat.’ He’s curled slightly into himself, with his arms in a lazy half-finished cross over his chest, like he’s trying to be cute. You only see the scars along his arms, stretching across his skin like they’ll never end. He’s using his whiny voice, but your heart still breaks when he speaks again. ‘I’m cold.’

You stand there, swaying a little on your feet, debating whether to indulge his histrionics or to make sure the effort you put into this soup isn’t wasted, and weigh out the options. Either increase Dave’s ego and be a predictable love-struck asshole, or save food and have something for him later. The right choice is clear as crystal. 

You growl again as you set the bowl down on the table and walk around to the side of the bed where his back’s positioned.

‘Karkat? What are you – oh.’

Your arms wrap around him from behind, and you huff into his sort of sweaty, sort of curly hair. You intertwine your legs because even though you should be on the other side of the meteor right now, you still want to be as close to him as possible.

‘This better?’ you mutter, like every cliché character in every cliché romcom. 

‘Uh… yeah.’ His voice is wobbly, like a disturbed pool, and that’s definitely, undoubtedly, completely and absolutely the illness, not any outside factors at all. Your face is as hot as his skin and you accept your fate like a baby woolbeast to the massacre as being a stupid, blushing cliché who’s currently spooning his matesprit/moirail/kismesis and still being stubborn enough not to use the human word for it, because you’re not a total anarchist and your dignity supply is, no matter how small, not completely non-existent.

It’s silent for a while, and the heat that emanates off of him is almost pleasantly warm. You close your eyes, exhaling into his hair, knowing he’s going to get you sick and hating him for it, knowing this is the most intimate he’s allowed you to be with him so far other than kissing him and pitying him for it, knowing he likes this just as much as you do and loving him for it.

‘I always thought you were going to be the little spoon,’ he says, because of course he does. 

‘Just because I’m smaller doesn’t mean I need more pity than you do,’ you reply with a practiced annoyance, despite your attempt to wish your tone away. He knows you don’t mean it, and hugs your arms with his. 

After five silent minutes, you open your eyes. ‘Dave.’

He almost jumps out of your hold. ‘Uh, yeah?’

‘Stop fucking moving,’ you mutter, shifting to pin his legs under yours and gripping him tighter. 

‘Sorry.’

‘Just … I thought you were tired. Or sick. Or something. Just go to sleep.’

‘Yeah, I know, but … this is …’ he doesn’t finish. You have a nagging, bitter feeling that the word he was going to use was “gay.”

‘Good?’ you supply, knowing that wasn’t what he meant, knowing he knows that, and praying he won’t correct you.

He’s still tense against your arms, but eventually he breathes out, ‘Yeah.’

After another five minutes, you think he gets tired of fighting the sick-induced slumber, and he relaxes, if only slightly. Two minutes after that and he’s finally breathing evenly, has finally stopped moving, and you resist the urge to hug him tighter because that would ruin it. Damn him for being such a light sleeper.

 

You blame him when the next week, you spend your time as sick and miserable as he was. He just laughs and kisses you, and even though you feel like shit, you can't help but think that it's perfect with him there.


End file.
